Ghosts in Autumn
by Tokyo Nightingale
Summary: Following Dumbledore's instructions, Sirius prepares to 'lie low at Lupin's' - and both men deal with the resurrection of their own personal demons. One-shot, fluffangst, please RR!


**Title: **Ghosts in Autumn

**Author:** Tokyo Nightingale PG

**Warnings:** Spoilers from TSS through GoF, angst

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter - books, movies, and characters - do not belong to me; if they did, do you think I would've killed Sirius! They belong to JKR, and if you didn't know that, it's about time to come out from under the rock. No profit is being made from this; I'm just amusing myself by playing with the characters a bit. The quote at the very beginning belongs to Emily Bronte; I'm just using it for inspiration.

**Summary:** Nothing lasts forever; not even anger. Inspired by a very random Emily Bronte quote (see fic). One-shot fluff piece written a while ago to avoid doing Biology homework. .

**Author's Notes:** This is my first HP fic, and I never intended to write one (I just like reading them .). But one look at this quote, and the words wouldn't stop in my head. Comments/criticisms are greatly appreciated. It's un-beta-ed, though I did proof-read the heck out of it; if anyone sees any lingering mistakes, though, please point them out. .

**Archives:** Posted to the remusxsirius and justpuppylove groups on LiveJournal, and to my writing journal. Anywhere else, please just ask.

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"_You said I killed you - haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth.. Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!"_

_-- Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights_

Remus pads into the kitchen before the sun has fully risen, battered old slippers shuffling through half-formed pools of early sunlight. The pale-gold light seems to ripple across the warped floorboards like water, trickling into every corner of the room to flood out the night-shadows that linger there. The sun's too weak to reach the living room yet, though, and the scattering shadows seem to flock there for refuge. The outline he can see curled up on the sofa is just that; a blurry silhouette, indistinct and undefined and swathed in darkness. Remus finds the sight unsettling, but he doesn't quite have the courage to cross the threshold into the other room and throw back the moth-eaten curtains. That would risk waking his guest, and he's not entirely sure he's summoned enough coherency for that yet. So he moves past the doorway, towards the tea kettle on the stove instead.

It's easy not to think too hard when one's hands are occupied with mundane tasks like making tea. After years of ritualistic loyalty, the body is capable of forming the actions without instruction from the brain, and there's comfort in that. The scars on the back of his hands jump across his skin as he puts the water on to boil, calloused fingers finding the correct dial-settings on the muggle stove almost before he's aware of what he's doing.

Slipping his hands into the pockets of his thread-bare robe, his tired gaze wanders to the window above the sink and the glimpse of the waking world outside. And he can remember a time when he used to love autumn; the ripe scents, the crisp feel of the air, the vibrant colors. But he'd been young then, far too young; not yet old enough to know that autumn always became winter, and that winter was cold and merciless. Not yet old enough to know that autumn meant dying, and that nothing lasts forever.

Halloween is not far off, but instead of extravagant dinners and treasured sweets, all the holiday brings now is shattered ghosts and specters of all that's been lost. How was it that time had taught him to hate everything he'd once held dear? He'd never given the world permission to change, but it had anyway, and when he'd given up hating fate for its betrayal, he'd just been tired and alone.

Even the autumn leaves lost some of their vibrancy to eyes grown tired with watching the colors fade. What was the point of loving the day if it was going to succumb to the night?

"Moony, your water's boiling."

Remus jumps a little at the soft intrusion, eyes flickering quickly towards the teapot so he won't have to look at the figure standing in the doorway. He didn't hear the whistle of the pot or the quiet patter of approaching footsteps in the hall, and he mentally reproaches himself on both accounts of negligence as he hurries towards the stove. Out of the corner of his eye he watches Sirius lean into the doorframe, making no move to cross the threshold or instigate farther conversation. He is giving Remus his space, and it hurts the werewolf that he knows enough to give it to him.

"You can come in," he offers suddenly, trying to keep his tone light as he pours out two cups of tea. Sirius won't drink his, of course, but Remus can't quite resist the temptation to take refuge behind simple formalities. "The full moon's a week away yet; I won't bite." It isn't funny, especially not when delivered in that uncertain murmur, but Sirius has the good grace to let it pass.

And he crosses the threshold.

A beam of sunlight strikes him full in the face the moment his bare feet connect with floor tile, and though he blinks rapidly against it he seems determined not to recoil. The pale threads of light burn off the last fog of sleep in his dark eyes, throwing them into sharper relief as the shadows lurking on the surface back-peddle to a more guarded region.

As though responding to some unseen cue, both men take seats at the table in one parallel motion. Remus pushes one of the tea cups towards his companion, which Sirius takes without comment. The ex-convict wraps his hands around the chipped porcelain, his calloused fingers meeting and interlocking around the edge. His hands seem too big for the delicate china, as though the fragile porcelain will splinter in his too-strong grip, but Remus doesn't comment. He's too busy watching the way Sirius' eyes go half-lidded at the warmth seeping through his skin, like he's never known the touch of heat before. The warmth of the tea is stealing his coherency, bleeding thoughts from his eyes and allowing the mist to creep back in. Funny, really, because that same tea was slowly reviving Remus, liquid awareness burning pleasantly down his throat as it awoke his tired consciousness. It was a convenient dichotomy, because it allowed Remus to study Sirius more closely without the other man being aware of it.

Wakefulness and the growing intensity of the morning sunlight was combining to bring things into sharper focus. Remus studies Sirius in this new light over the rim of his tea-cup, too angular and too sharp and too thin and too _dark_ for an autumn morning. His skin is pale and his hair is bedraggled and dull as his eyes, and he's just so _colorless_, like winter, bland and remote.

"You're cold."

The sound of Remus' voice breaks the spell, and Sirius blinks himself back to life. His fingers shift around the cup, though they don't release it. "Not anymore." His voice is husky in an unusual way that isn't all together unpleasant, and Remus has a feeling that he isn't talking about the tea. And, oh God, he should've just kept his mouth shut, because now Sirius is looking at him, and he'd forgotten how _intense_ those eyes are when they're focused.

Remus looks at his cup, at the table, at the floor, anywhere except the confrontation he knows is fast approaching. He stalls for time by watching dust motes drifting in golden beams of sunlight, half-formed ghosts refusing to settle in the quiet. They're warm and lazy and familiar, making the pale specter at the other end of the table all that much more out of place.

"I thought you were a ghost," Remus muses quietly, still watching the dust.

"It was foggy out. I should've transformed before scratching at the door, but I wasn't thinking …" He's still looking at Remus, but his expression is guarded.

"No … I meant at the shack."

"Oh."

There's a stretch of silence after that, not exactly comfortable, but neither man seems willing to break it. Until Sirius adds, rather shortly, "Well, I was."

"That's not funny, Sirius."

"Good. Because it wasn't supposed to be."

"… And now?" His fingers are toying with the rim of his cup in a nervous-sort of way, even though the rational part of his brain tells him there's nothing to fear.

The same _rational_ part of his mind that told him Sirius Black was a traitor and deserved to rot in hell for breaking his heart.

"Dunno," comes the gruff reply, "Why don't you look at me long enough to see for yourself?"

Remus feels anger spark within him at this, though he knows _that_ isn't rational at all, and before he can wonder at it he hears himself saying, "You've been a ghost to me for thirteen years, Sirius. _Thirteen years_. I saw you everywhere, after you - after they - afterwards. 'Till I began to dread it, more than anything. You haunted me, even when I knew I'd never see you again. Until finally … you left. Finally, I accepted. And now …"

"And now?" Sirius prompts when Remus falls silent. He is still holding the tea cup. Very, very tightly.

"And now … you're here. Alive. And I feel like the ghost."

"I thought you'd be happy to see me."

"I am."

"You're not acting like it."

"It's … It's a lot to take in at once, Sirius."

"You've had an entire year to take it in."

"I've had an entire year to struggle with the collapse of everything I thought was true."

"The resurrection of ghosts."

"The resurrection of _you_."

The conversation trips on another long pause. Sirius isn't looking at Remus anymore; he's staring moodily out the window above the sink, watching the leaves fall. But Remus doesn't notice, because he's still starring at the floor.

"So you completely wrote me out of your life, then." As before, it's Sirius who breaks the silence. He's never had Remus' patience.

"… I tried to."

Sirius releases the cup, tilts his head back, frowns up at the shadows watching from the ceiling. It's full morning now, but there are always shadows lurking just beyond the edge of the light. "You really hated me that much?"

"What choice did I have? I thought you'd killed … them."

"I didn't."

"I know."

"I've never killed anyone."

"… That's not true."

"What?" Sirius is looking at him again.

"I said, 'That's not true'."

Sirius' eyes narrow. Now he's feeling angry, too. "And who, pray tell, have I killed, then?"

"Me."

"… That's not funny, Remus."

"Good. Because it wasn't supposed to be."

The role-reversal isn't lost on Sirius, who doesn't seem to appreciate it much, if his scowl is any indication. "I may be a ghost, Moony, but you sure as hell aren't."

The careless use of his old nick-name shatters what little composure he has left. Remus rises from his chair and moves towards the window, clenching the edge of the sink so Sirius won't see how badly his hands are shaking.

"You say you're a ghost; haunt me, then," Sirius implores quietly, desperate to keep him in the conversation, to keep him from walking away. "You've haunted this plane for thirteen years; here's your chance. I'm sitting here now. Take your revenge."

Remus is feeling unaccountably light-headed, and his white-knuckled grip on the sink has become a plea for support. Things weren't supposed to turn out this way! He'd sworn upon rising this morning that he was going to push down his pain and attend to Sirius' own, but now that pain is threatening to force him to his knees, to blind him with tears he'd thought long-since shed.

"I don't want revenge, Sirius," he manages hoarsely, bowing his head.

"Then what do you want?"

"The impossible." Remus can't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I want all of us to be together again. I want to remember what it was like to be sixteen and stupid and in love and happy. I want autumn to last forever."

"Are you angry that I came here? … Do you want me to leave?"

Remus looks at him then, finally _looks_ at him, and finds him frowning uneasily into his un-touched tea.

"_No._ Oh, Merlin, no." Hesitantly, Sirius looks up and meets Remus' gaze.

"I don't want to hurt you, Moony. That's the last thing I want to do. And it seems I've done enough of that already."

"I want you to stay, Padfoot. I'm not sure about anything right now - except for that."

Sirius tries to smile, succeeds partially - it's obvious his lips are no longer accustomed to the action. The realization gives Remus the courage to return to the table, even if he is a little unsteady. "Can I start again?" he requests softly.

The second smile is a little stronger. "If you like."

"Good morning."

Sirius laughs outright at this, and though his voice is a little hoarse, it warms the room somehow. "Good morning," he returns with a hint of his old grin.

"Sirius?"

"Yeah?"

"I missed you. I really, really missed you. That should've been the first thing I said."

"Me, too." A pause, and then; "You really missed me? Even though I haunted you?"

"That's what ghosts do, you know; they haunt people." Remus sounds very matter-of-fact. "Besides, if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I think I certainly can forgive you."

"All is forgiven." Delivered with absolutely no hesitation.

"All is forgiven, then."

"So what happens now, Moony? Are we to be two old ghosts, living here and haunting each other for all eternity?"

"No. We're going to be two old men, living here and licking each other's wounds until we're healed."

"That doesn't sound so bad."

"No, Padfoot; not so bad at all."

"And after we're healed?"

"Maybe then it will be Spring; time to start again. But for now? One day at a time."

So they sit there and drink their tea, talk and remember and haunt and _live_. Autumn continues to fade outside their door, but that's all right, because nothing lasts forever.

If it did, it wouldn't be worth loving, wouldn't be worth bleeding for.

And maybe that's the point.


End file.
